


Hotline

by LaughableLament



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bossy Dean, Dirty Talk, Hurt Sam, M/M, Masturbation, Phone Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:28:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25532134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughableLament/pseuds/LaughableLament
Summary: Sam’s injured and laid up; Dean’s alone and bored as hell. Staking out the haunt of a pissed-off spirit, nothing like a little 1-900 action to pass the time.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 14
Kudos: 240





	Hotline

**Author's Note:**

> Hugs and thanks forever to @[nisaki-chan](https://nisaki-chan.tumblr.com/), for the conversation, courage, and... you know... everything! 💜💜💜

Dean cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders. Rubs his nose against the piss-and-dumpster alley smell. Two blocks down and across the street, an El Sol neon sign blinks out.

“Finally,” he mutters. Raises his binoculars, eyes the backdoor, labeled: _EMPLOYEES AND DELIVERIES ONLY_.

Sky’s gonna get gray soon. Damn ghost couldn’t have picked a town where the bars close at one, nooooo. These parts? Bars pour until four—which, Dean would’ve appreciated under other circumstances.

Last few drunks stumbled out of Sidelines Sports and Spirits—irony, huh?—maybe ten minutes ago. Pretty bartender and a beefy bouncer mill around, clean up, close down. Once they’ve cleared out…

Dean checks the sawed-off, salt shells and fire iron laid out beside him on the seat. Tests the EMF detector, fiftieth time or so. Won’t be easy, B&E in breaking daylight, skulking around until he figures out which piece of memorabilia in there needs the salt-and-burn.

Phone buzzes in his pocket. Contact: _Rapunzel_. Makes Dean snicker, even though—

“You’re supposed to be resting.”

Sam huffs. “I just woke up, dude. Thought you could use a pep talk, seeing as you’re up way past bedtime.”

“Smartass.” Dean rolls his eyes. Anyway, “How’s the ankle?”

“Sore.”

“You sure you don’t want X-rays?”

“Definitely,” Sam says. “It’s just sprained. I’ve got Advil and ice packs. Quit babying me.”

“Well, quit being a walking catastrophe and I won’t have to baby you.” He still doesn’t get how Sam wiped out so spectacularly. Their ghost’s a four-foot-tall jockey for fuck’s sake.

“Blow me.”

Dean laughs low. “Now, see? That’s a plan I can get behind.” He’s got a half hour, minimum. “If I was there, you know…” He slides down in the seat. Knees spread wide. “You still in your PJ’s?” 

“Dean…”

“Come on!” He goads.

“Yes,” Sam sighs.

“That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” Dean clamps the phone between his cheek and shoulder. “Take your dick out.”

“You’re serious.”

Dean glances around. “Hell yeah!” Undoes his fly, strokes through his shorts. “I mean, I could do it for you. Lay you down, slide those pants off…” Bedsprings creak and Dean grins. “You doin’ it?”

Sam huffs again. “Are you?”

“Uhhhh, yeah.” He pinches and rubs, hums in the phone. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

Slightly begrudging, “Yes.”

“Know what’d feel even better?” Dean goes skin-to-skin, glad he’s wearing boxers. “If I had my mouth on you.” Light squeeze and he groans soft.

“Dude.” Sam’s getting breathy.

“Think I wanna torment you.” Half-mast and growing. “Tease you, kiss around your thighs.”

Sam rumbles.

“Hickeys, man. I wanna mark you up.” Dean scouts the still-deserted street. “Hold you down and…” Coast is clear. He pulls his cock and balls out over the boxers’ waistband. “Tell me what you’re doing.”

Sharp, heavy breath and Sam says, “I’m-uh…” Pissy: “Jacking off, dude! What do you think?”

“That’s very sexy, Sammy, come on. Gimme details.” Dean tilts for a better angle. Loose grip, slow pace.

“Dean…” 

“Fine, fine.” He hears Sam shift again. “I like that little spot right where your leg ends. That little crease where my tongue fits oh, so, sweet.” Listens to his brother breathing. “Gettin’ my teeth in there, suckin’ the skin, makin’ you squirm and whine.”

“I do _not_ whine.” Pitchy.

“Heh. You should hear yourself—oh! I should tape you!” Dean rocks into his circled fingers. “Anyway. I’m gonna spread your legs, little brother.”

Sam groans.

Dean smirks. Gets him every time. “Lick up between there, bruise you up a little more.” Dean pauses. Revels in the sounds Sam makes. “Tug on that sack. Make it hurt a little.”

“God,” Sam rasps.

“Fuck, Sammy, you’re so hot for me.” Makes Dean leak. “Tell me what you want.”

“Dean…”

“Yeah I know you want that,” Dean chuckles, “but, what do you want me to _do_ to you?”

“Come on, man.” Sam’s blushing; Dean can hear it in his voice. “I want…”

“Say it.”

“I want you to suck me off.”

“Yeah!” Dean spits in his palm, mixes his slick. “You still jackin’?” Smooth ride now, rising tingle.

Ragged, “Yes.”

Nuts tight already, and Dean says, “Speed up. Think about me suckin’ you.” 

Quick, hitching breath.

“I could choke on that dick and die happy, you know?”

“Oh my God.”

“You close?” Dean picks up his pace. “Put me on speaker, man. Use both hands.” Bonus, now he can hear Sam’s skin sounds. “Know you like it when I scratch your balls.”

Sam moans.

“Fuck, I wanna flip you over, get you wet.” Dean strokes so fast, his hand’s a blur. Gonna blow this load before too long. “Lick you open, stick a finger in you while I jerk you off.” 

Sam’s all jagged breath and slapping noises.

“That’s it, Sammy, stroke it for me.” Dean’s head falls back, eyes shut and he pictures Sam, soft sweatpants bunched at his knees, sweaty chest, big dick all red and shiny. Murmurs, “So hot, little brother, wanna see you lose it.”

Sam’s giving it hell now. Fast slaps, squeaky springs. Dean imagines they’re in the room together. Cut, clenched abs, bitten lip, shallow dimples. Hair stuck wet to his face. 

“Come on, kid, shoot for me.”

Sam yells. 

Dean keeps talking. “Taste so good, Sammy, gonna swallow all of you.” Heat roils Dean’s guts, nuts draw up. Cussing, stripping his dick and listening to Sammy’s aftershocks. Phone drops. Dean wrangles his bandana out of his pocket.

“God, Dean,” Sam pants, small and reedy from his lap. “How do you do that to me? Make me come like—” 

Dean doesn’t catch the rest. Roaring. Hot spurt in his handkerchief and _Sammy_ on his lips. Salt-sweet, sense memory. Dean’s mouth floods just thinking about it. Sparks race, sweat slicks his spine. 

“Fuck, Dean. Wish I could see you right now.” 

Sex smell, come-soaked rag. Upstairs brain boots up slow as Dean drifts. Endorphins. “Shit, man.” Chuckling. “We should do this more often.”

“Seriously?” Leave it to Sammy to full-on vocalize an eye-roll. “How often are we not in the same room when you’re horny?”

“Hey.” Sam’s right, but, “That’s fixed, soon as I walk to the car—oh! Nooo, we should put _you_ in the car next time.”

“Next time.” Flat, but for the slightest tremor.

“Put you someplace where you might get caught, but you won’t go to jail if you—Shit!” Down the street, Sidelines Sports and Spirits’ staff head for their cars. “Gotta go!”

“Wait, hang on!”

“I know, Sammy, I wish I could stay and cuddle too.” He tucks his junk back in and he throws his hanky out the window. 

“Not that, dumbass. I was gonna say, I think you should look for a riding crop in there.”

“Kinky!” 

“Idiot,” but Sammy’s grinning. “I went through their social media, and that was the only thing horse-racing related—”

“Sammy?”

“Yeah.”

Dean grabs his gear. “Keep the bed warm, huh? Be home before you know it.”

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr post here](https://laughablelament.tumblr.com/post/624732595344850944/hotline-explicit-wincest-phone-sex-pwp-11k)


End file.
